


Broken

by ImaginaryFigment



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinda?, M/M, No Character Names Used, Poetic, Vulnerability, implied/referenced eating disorder, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27421699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaginaryFigment/pseuds/ImaginaryFigment
Summary: He's broken, perhaps beyond repair. And yet, the light of his life has never left, has always stayed by his side, promises to love him forever.Whether or not he can believe it, he doesn't know.There's too much he doesn't know. Empty promises, empty words, empty love, all echo in his mind. How much is truth, how much is lie? He doesn't know, he doesn't know if he ever will.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Shuichi really said "I have no pronouns, do not refer to me"

Hands trail over bare shoulders, down to ribs that stick out too far, to hips that jut out, and back up to cup hollow cheeks. “Are you...okay?” A soft murmur, one he hardly hears.

He tilts his head. “Is anyone?” comes the reply. 

It doesn’t seem like his answer was well received. “What’s wrong?” 

“What isn’t?” he asks, his lips curling into a cold smile. “But then again, I could just be lying.” But he isn’t, they both know that. Not about this. He can’t lie about this. The truth is in his too-thin frame, in the lines angrily slashed across his thighs. 

“I love you.” 

“Do you?” He looks up to meet that golden sea, always waiting for him, filled with pure love and adoration. And hurt. 

“Yes, of course, I do. “ 

He laughs shakily. “I don’t think anyone does,” he whispers. “Not like this.” 

“ _I_ do. Whether or not you believe it, it’s true.” 

“How? I’m broken.” He’s broken, it’s true. Too many things wrong. Not enough left to fix. 

“You’re perfect.” He can’t accept that. He shakes his head. 

“I’m really not.” He doesn’t understand why anyone would say that, not about him. Others, of course. Others are perfect. Others aren’t broken. Not like he is.

“You are to me. Nothing could be better than you are. You’re stunningly...absolutely...amazingly...perfect.” Each word is accentuated with a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. He tilts his head to the side, allowing better access to the pale flesh of his neck. The gentle kisses don’t stop. They’re placed everywhere, at every imperfection. 

A few across his scarred thighs.

Some along his bony hips. 

A few on his chest, against the skin that hugs too tightly to his ribs. 

On his thin wrists and arms, his shoulders. 

Over to his collarbones and neck, to his jaw and cheeks and forehead. 

Warm lips meet his, chaste and soft and gentle and perfect. 

Neither of them has their eyes closed. They stare at each other, purple against gold. Two cold, dead abysses, filled to the brim with pain. Pain for each other, pain for others, pain for themselves. 

They stare at each other, unable to close their eyes, as the kiss slowly deepened. He reaches up, pushing his hand through midnight hair. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, finally breaking the kiss. 

“I love _you_. Do you believe that, now?” 

He doesn’t. He wants to, of course, he does. But he can’t. 

Because it’s not true. It’s not, of course, it’s not. It never is. 

It never will be. 

He’s tucked against a warm chest, safe and hidden from the world. His fists ball into the fabric of a dark t-shirt, pulling it closer to him as he digs his fingers into pallid skin he can’t see. It’s comforting, in the moment. Sweet, maybe. Reassuring. A reminder that maybe he's not as alone as he believes, as alone as everything and everyone have told him he is. 

“God, what are we doing?” he mutters. Eyes scan over him, questioning. 

“What do you mean?”

“What are we doing?” he repeats. “What are _you_ doing? What are _you_ doing with _me_?”

“I feel like I’ve answered that before,” comes the reply. 

He scoffs. “Answer it again, then.” 

He can feel a soft smile against his cheek where a head lays on top of his. “Okay. I’m here because I love you.”

He groans, turning his head to bury it further into the warm chest in front of him. “I didn’t ask for more lies.”

There’s a small tutting sound he barely hears. It’s quiet. It’s all too quiet. Every word coming from those beautiful lips, every whisper gracing his ear, everything. It’s all too quiet. 

“It’s not a lie. It never will be.”

He wants to believe it, of course, he does. But he can't, of course, he can’t. 

“Okay.” It’s all he says and he knows it’s not enough. He knows there should be a better response. 

“Okay?”

There’s too much left unspoken, too much he can’t say, too much he doesn’t know. 

“Yeah.” His next sentence lays unspoken in his throat, itching and begging for him to speak it. He doesn’t, of course, he doesn’t. 

_Just hold me for a while…?_

Even without asking, without moving at all, it’s like his request is known. It’s as though his mind is being read, as though every question he could have, every thought, is spoken aloud without his knowing. He knows because a pair of arms wrap around him, hugging tightly as he’s crushed against the same warm chest, his frail body, broken perhaps beyond repair, is loved, somehow. Somehow _he_ is loved. Loved even though he can’t be. 

It’s almost nice. 

It’s almost nice until he remembers. 

It’s almost nice until the doubt floods back in. 

It’s almost nice until he can _see_ it, the end, the final days, the fire burning down everything they’d built. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, burrowing deeper into that warmth, into his salvation, into his last light. 

It’s almost nice. 


End file.
